


afraid of something (they can't understand)

by sameboots



Series: give it a chance [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, First Dance, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameboots/pseuds/sameboots
Summary: Part 2 of 3 for Brienne the P.A. Brienne panics. Jaime panics. Brienne self-protects. Jaime self-protects. Also, there are flowers and a dance.--“Okay.” Brienne tries to smile at him, a tremulous attempt. “I’ll be there at seven forty-five, unless you--”“I’ll pick you up,” Jaime interrupts, seeming almost nervous as he says it. He must see the confusion on her face, because he smirks at her. “I promise, my tie will be straight, I will be immaculately dressed, and I’ll be on time.”She can’t help but laugh lightly at that. The smile he returns is the same heart-stopping, gleaming one that makes people nearly swoon. That makesherwant to swoon.





	afraid of something (they can't understand)

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't actually _plan_ on writing this when I posted _[give it a chance now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796185)_ , but the best laid plans etc. 
> 
> Please be aware: this part is angsty! Angst is a tag for a reason! But this will _ultimately_ have a happy ending. Have faith and trust the process and trust that I am emotionally incapable of writing an unhappy _ending_.
> 
> Thank you endlessly to both dollsome and bethanyactually for lending their eyeballs to this and fixing all my grammar oopsies and story murkiness.

Brienne’s hand trembles as she hands the envelope across the desk to Jaime. He glances down, confusion writ large across his face. 

“What’s this?” 

She sits down in the chair across from him, folds her hands in her lap, and takes a deep breath. “It’s my resignation.”    
  
If she slapped him, she doesn’t think he could look any more startled. 

“What?” he asks with a tone Brienne’s never heard from him before. 

“It’s my two weeks’ notice,” she explains. “I may be able to--”

“Why are you doing this?” He sounds shaken, his hand clenching around the letter, crumpling it. 

“I feel it’s time for me to move on,” she says quietly, forcing herself to maintain eye contact, no matter how thick the lump in her throat becomes. “It’s been two years, and I believe I’ve reached the capacity of what I can learn from this position. I--”

“Bullshit.” Jaime’s voice lashes like a whip, quick and sharp and startling. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” She knows she doesn’t sound emotionless, not like she planned. 

He looks briefly at the crumpled envelope in his hand before catching her eye again, something hard descending over his expression. “I don’t accept.”

Brienne can’t prevent the small, sad smile that spreads across her mouth. “That’s not an option, Mr. Lannister.” 

Brienne realizes that she’s never seen him truly hurt. The look on his face transforms into something that curdles her stomach. She glances down at her hands, blinking rapidly against the burn of tears before they can fall, before he can tell how emotional she is, steeling herself before turning her eyes back to his face. “I’ll do whatever I can to make this transition as easy as possible.”

He doesn’t respond, his gaze going distant, as if he’s retreated into his own mind. She jumps when the phone rings. “I should get that,” she mumbles and walks away, leaving him staring into space. 

\--

Jaime knows he has to get it together, but he can’t seem to accept that Brienne is leaving. He has two weeks with her. Two more weeks of her wry smile. Two weeks of her quiet competence making his life run seamlessly. Not even two weeks. Ten days, in truth. Only ten more days of her wide blue eyes, her eyerolls that can’t quite disguise the tiny smile he teases to her lips, her shy composure on his arm at interminable parties. 

She’s been his first line of defense for two years. It’s ridiculous to think it’s only been two years. It’s impossible to remember what it was like before Brienne. He vaguely remembers Lewys as an enthusiastic assistant, someone completely qualified on paper. He was the grandson of one of his father’s friends, someone who knew Jaime’s family, was from the same circles. And yet, he somehow never managed to anticipate Jaime’s needs.

He has no idea what to do, so he calls the one person who has never given him any leeway. 

“Brienne quit,” he says, not even bothering to return Tyrion’s greeting. 

“Damn.” Tyrion sounds genuine for once. “Do you need help interviewing her replacement?”

“No,” Jaime barely manages to eke out between clenched teeth. “Brienne  _ quit _ .”

There’s silence on the other end of the call. Only the steady sound of Tyrion breathing, the silence of his thinking nearly drowns out the thudding beat of Jaime’s heart. 

“Jaime.” Tyrion’s tone is so pitying that Jaime wants nothing more than a stiff drink. Or two. 

“I know, okay?” Jaime leans back in his desk chair to stare up at the ceiling. 

“What did you do?” Tyrion doesn’t sound accusatory, exactly, but it puts Jaime’s back up nonetheless. 

“Nothing.” Jaime can just imagine the way Tyrion’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Everything was fine. We were actually -- I thought . . .”

“Is this when you finally own up to being in love with your assistant?”

Jaime closes his eyes. “You make me sound like a teenager with a crush.” 

“You might as well be,” Tyrion replies, his tone drifting toward something sterner, drier. “Look, brother, you’re forty years old. You’ve been crazy about this woman since practically the first moment you met her.” Jaime opens his mouth to protest, but Tyrion cuts him off. “Don’t even think about denying it. I know you better than anyone.”

“What’s your point?” Jaime grumbles.

“You’re a grown man. Tell. Her. How. You. Feel.” 

\--

In the two weeks that follow her resignation, Brienne feels Jaime’s eyes on her even more than usual. Maybe it’s the quiet sort of contemplation he seems to look at her with now. She spends her days walking her replacement through her duties, familiarizing Podrick with Jaime’s schedule, the phone calls Jaime will always take, and the ones he won’t. 

It’s not enough time. Brienne should have anticipated that, but she’s spent so long now completely entwined with Jaime’s life -- it’s almost become her own. 

On her last Thursday, Jaime stops by her desk as soon as Pod’s left for his lunch break. 

“Hi,” she says hesitantly. 

Jaime’s been distant since she turned the letter in, reserved where before he was loud. She never thought she would miss his pestering, but she finds herself almost bored these days. 

He looks down and traces a finger along the shellacked top of her desk, his jaw clenching as she watches his throat tighten with a heavy swallow.

He finally glances up, looking at her with a heaviness she didn’t expect. “Are you still coming tomorrow night?” 

“Of course.” Brienne doesn’t know why she’s offended. Technically, tomorrow at six p.m. she’s officially unemployed. She certainly won’t be required to attend the gala. But then, she’s never been  _ required _ in an official capacity. Jaime stares at her for a beat too long and she can feel herself flushing. “That is, unless, if you want someone else --”

“No,” he cuts her off. “No, I want to take you.”

“Okay.” She tries to smile at him, a tremulous attempt. “I’ll be there at seven forty-five, unless you--”

“I’ll pick you up,” he interrupts again, seeming almost nervous as he says it. He must see the confusion on her face, because he smirks at her. “I promise, my tie will be straight, I will be immaculately dressed,  _ and _ I’ll be on time.”

She can’t help but laugh lightly at that. The smile he returns is the same heart-stopping, gleaming one that makes people nearly swoon. That makes  _ her  _ want to swoon. 

\--

Jaime knocks on her door at eight o’clock on the dot. He’s grinning broadly when she opens the door. He’s dressed immaculately, his tie straight, hair combed, and he’s not wearing brown shoes with his black tux. But if Jaime looks nice, Brienne looks -- she’s wearing heels tonight, her deep blue gown of some floating thin material that folds and skims over her body, wrapping around her waist and secured over one shoulder, like a Grecian toga. 

“You look great.” He turns slightly, offering her his arm to take. “Shall we?”   
  


Brienne rolls her eyes, but takes his arm. She seems strangely quiet, almost like she’s nervous. 

“You look surprisingly neat,” she says as they descend the stairs outside her apartment. “Did you somehow convince Tyrion to come over and tie your tie?” 

“No.” Jaime says hesitantly. 

Brienne glances over at him, eyebrows raised. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

“I did it,” he admits reluctantly.

Brienne actually pauses on the stairs, turning to face him. “I thought you didn’t know how,” she says flatly. 

“Well,” Jaime looks away from her, suddenly feeling awkward in his own skin. “You’re better at it than I am. And quicker.” 

Brienne  _ hmms _ like she doesn’t quite believe him. When he finally glances back at her, she’s got a curious expression on her face. However, she takes his arm again to continue down the stairs. She doesn’t say any more, and Jaime, for possibly the first time in his life, feels truly tongue-tied. He can’t even talk about work on Monday, because she won’t  _ be _ there. But then, Brienne doesn’t seem to be rushing to speak either. 

It’s possible this entire night is a bad idea. The plan already seems to be going sideways, and he’s unskilled enough to feel at loose ends, and the evening has barely begun.

It’s not until they’re already tucked into the back of the town car that he manages to pull himself together enough to break the silence. 

“Do you have your next job lined up?” he asks, trying to find the balance between casual and genuine interest, without dipping into desperation. 

“I’m still deciding,” she says quietly, an uneasiness in her expression that is foreign to him. “I have a few offers.”

“I could help,” Jaime offers, surprising even himself, but the idea of Brienne ending up in some job with an asshole who won’t realize how great she is makes him sick. “I have a lot of connections.”

She smiles like she’s trying not to. “I’ll manage, but thank you.”

Her denial,  _ rejection _ , hurts. For the millionth time he finds himself thinking that Tyrion is an idiot. He knows the only possible conclusion to telling her how he feels is rejection. A rejection from Brienne that will be kind, apologetic even. He’ll have to live with the idea that he asked for too much, or pushed her too far. He’ll be left with the fact that it was his own want for more than she could give that drove her away. 

The silence is a heavy weight between them and Jaime has no idea how to break it. 

\--

Brienne beats a hasty retreat to the ladies’ room as soon as she and Jaime are done greeting the other party-goers. She needs a moment away from Jaime, from his kindness and generosity, which are the problem to begin with. Jaime, who doesn’t seem to understand what his smile and charm can do to people. Jaime, who has no idea how much she  _ wants _ , and how torturous it is to be so near and so far all at once. 

When she re-enters the ballroom, she snags a flute of champagne and ducks into the nearest quiet corner. She glances around for Jaime, and then as if summoned by wordless command, he’s in front of her, terribly, heartbreakingly handsome.

“What’s wrong?” He looks worried, stepping in closer to her, almost as if to block out the rest of the room. 

“Nothing.” 

Jaime narrows his eyes. She desperately tries to keep her expression neutral. The longer he stares at her, the heavier her pulse becomes. He sets his own champagne flute down on the side table and holds out his hand. She blinks at it.

“Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance,” Brienne replies automatically with a smile. It’s something she’s said at countless other parties. Usually, Jaime says it teasingly, like a private joke between them alone. This time, there’s something heavy in the weight of his regard, a seriousness to his tone that makes her feel like she can’t take a deep breath. Her smile falters. 

“I do.” He drops his hand and closes the space between them. “I’d like to dance with you.”

“Mr. Lannister,” she says, breathlessly, her stomach full of butterflies. 

“You don’t work for me anymore. Call me by my name, please.” He’s so near that his voice is barely audible, but it doesn’t need to be louder, not with that entreating tone. The husky warmth of it wraps around Brienne like a blanket, yet somehow makes a shiver run down her spine. “Will you dance with me?”

She has to look down for a moment and take a breath. When she finally raises her eyes back to his, he’s gazing at her face intently.

“Okay,” she says and tries not to tremble as he takes her fingers in his own to lead her to the dance floor.

It strikes her like a bolt of lightning. It’s not that they’ve never touched before. She’s fixed his tie. He’s helped her out of a car. They’ve passed papers back and forth. But this touch is . . .  _ intentional _ in a way none have been before. His hand is warm, his fingers holding her own firmly as he turns to face her and draws her into his arms. 

Brienne’s can’t help the flood of warmth at the feel of his hand on the small of her back and his other grasping her own as he leads her in a gentle slow dance. There’s not enough form to it for it to be called a waltz, but that somehow makes it all the more disorienting. It should feel awkward. He’s shorter than she is when she’s in flats, much less the low heels she’s wearing tonight. But somehow, they fit. Somehow, she feels that terrible aching joy and terror of simply being held. 

Their dance somehow draws them closer and closer, their movements becoming little more than a sway. Brienne wants nothing more than to be able to rest her head on his shoulder, tuck herself into the protection of his warmth until she forgets that soon she won’t have any reason to see him again. 

“Stay.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, low and round and husky against her jaw. 

Brienne doesn’t need to ask what he means by that one word. That one word that knocks the wind out of her. 

“I can’t,” she answers, glad they’re close enough that he can’t see the pain she knows is painted plainly across her face. 

“ _ Why _ ?” He pulls away then, staring her in the eye, seeking an answer in her own.

She knows he’s only thinking of business, that training a new assistant and hoping they work out is something he has neither the time nor patience for. But for just a moment, a blink of an eye, she allows herself to believe it’s more than that. 

She can feel herself falling, and she can’t afford to now. Desperate, she tries once again to put some distance between them. .“Mr. Lannister--”

“Don’t.” His gaze hardens and she can feel her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings in her throat. 

She shakes her head, breaking eye contact and simply says, “I just can’t.”

\--

Jaime manages to smile his way through the rest of the gala. He doesn’t know how he does it with Brienne still at his side, on his arm, speaking so kindly to everyone, as if nothing had changed. They don’t speak again, not privately, and he doesn’t react when she still calls him  _ Mr. Lannister _ .

_ This is the moment, _ he tells himself the entire ride back to her apartment,  _ this is your chance _ . He’s doing a terrible job of convincing himself that he’s not just setting himself up for rejection, so the woman he’s crazy about can look him dead in the eye and tell him  _ no _ . There’s something to be said for the hope of a question never asked, and all the possibilities it still holds.

Brienne doesn’t look at him on the ride or break the strange silence that’s suffocated them since their dance. She alternates between checking the time on her phone and looking at the passing cars. 

Before he’s ready, they’ve pulled up outside her building. She barely glances at him as she says, “Goodnight.”

Brienne reaches for the door handle and with a burst of electric anxiety, he says, “Brienne.”

She looks back at him, wariness and exhaustion blended on her face in a way that makes his heart sink. He stares at her long enough that nervousness eclipses any other emotion, both in his mind and on her face. 

“Yes?” she eventually asks quietly. 

For a moment, he thinks he won’t be able to say anything around the lump in his throat and the anxiety knotting his stomach. This is it. This is his last chance to tell her, to ask her, to beg her for a chance. And he can’t seem to force the words out. 

“Take care,” he finally says.

Brienne blinks, swallows and says, “You, too.”

And then she’s gone.

\--

Brienne answers the knock at her door to find a messenger with an enormous vase of flowers. All varying shades of blue and green and white, like looking out over a field at the coast of Tarth. When she actually looks closer, they’re all blossoms native to her home, and it sends a pang of longing through her. 

She thanks the delivery person and sets them on her counter. She stares, taking it in, knowing deep down who must have sent them. She steadies herself and plucks the card from the holder, slipping it out of the stiff envelope. 

In Jaime’s chicken-scratch hand, it says only:

_ Thank you for everything. No matter what, I want you to be happy.  _

__ \- Jaime _ _


End file.
